Twisted Twosome

by Meghan Quinn

  “This tight?” I adjust my crotch, feeling the pressure on how small the clothes are on my masculine body.

  “Well, not all of the men are built like you.” Waverly scans me up and down. “But yeah, they wear their clothes tight.”

  “I think my balls are losing feeling.”

  “You’re such a baby.” Adalyn rolls her eyes.

  “You’re going to have to suck it up. This outfit will make you fit right in,” Madison adds.

  “Agreed.” Waverly nods again. “I say we get three outfits in different colors.”

  Madison starts pointing at the outfits behind me. “Yeah, blue and yellow, red and orange, and this pink ensemble. He will be the talk of the town.”

  “The bell of the ball.” Waverly laughs.

  “Hold still so I can take a picture for Emma,” Adalyn demands.

  I grab the back of my neck, my frustration ready to explode, as Georgie steps up to me and removes the sweater. She gently feels the fabric of my shirt and shakes her head. “It’s not him. He needs something different.”

  “Of course it’s not him. He wears a tool belt for a good percentage of his day, but he can’t wear that to Bitsy’s Ball,” Madison adds.

  “I know.” Georgie stares into my eyes, and I get a sense of protection somehow. She speaks softly but firmly, “He’s doing me a favor, so he needs to be somewhat comfortable.”

  Fuck, I want to kiss this woman so hard right now, not just because she’s not going to force me to wear this hideous outfit, but from the gentle way she’s shielding me. It’s a different side of her I haven’t seen, a side I could easily become addicted to. Scary. It’s how she’s acted toward me over the last few days. And without vocalizing it, I can tell my attendance to her weird weekend is softening her a bit. And it’s also making me feel vulnerable.

  I have bills to pay. Everyone heard it, especially Georgie. She doesn’t know all of my struggle, but I think she’s starting to get the idea, and to hell if her gentle side isn’t slowly picking away at the wall I’m trying to keep between us.

  But with her light touch, the way she sees me, rather than the mannequin she’s bringing to the Hamptons, but as a man, fuck, I’m having a hard time separating my reservations for this woman with my feelings.

  “Madison, grab me a pair of grey chino shorts in his size as well as a white button-up, athletic fit.” Grabbing my hand, she leads me into the dressing room and shuts the curtain, giving us some much-needed privacy. “I know you don’t want to do this, I can see it all over your face.” She looks up at me. “Just tell me right now if you’re out. I won’t be mad. You’re already doing so much for me with the shop. I know I guilted you about Chauncey, but if you’re going to be miserable, I don’t want you to go.”

  Well, shit. I never saw that coming. Georgie and I are usually battling in a game of wit. We’re not the type to have sensitive moments, so to say she’s catching me off guard is an understatement.

  Do I really want to go to this Bitsy Ball that seems like a total nightmare, a weekend feeling out of place? No, not even a little. I’ll be losing out on precious time I don’t have to spare, but for the life of me, when I look at her pleading—and fucking gorgeous—green eyes, I can’t say no.

  She might drive me crazy. She might make me want to punch a wall at times with her asinine thoughts on construction, and she might make me feel inferior not by her doing but by my own, but hell, there is something about this woman that makes me want more with her.

  You don’t know me at all.

  She’s said it to me so many times. Maybe it’s time I truly find out who Georgiana Westbrook is.

  Intimately, I tug on a strand of her hair and say, “I’m in, Princess.” I run my thumb along her jaw, and she leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering. “Just don’t make me wear this.”

  She laughs and shakes her head, “I won’t.”

  “Here you go.” Madison sticks her hand through the curtain and hands us another set of clothes, a set I could possibly get on board with.

  “This might be better.” Georgie passes me the clothes. “Let me know what you think.” She goes to leave when I snag her hand and twirl her back toward me.

  “Stay. I don’t want to walk out there again if I look like another giant penis. I’m already self-conscious as it is.”

  She twists her mouth to the side in confusion. “Why are you self-conscious?”

  This is neither the time nor place to get into this conversation so I say, “Don’t worry about it, Georgie.”

  I release her hand and take off the pink shirt and toss it to the side. I’m not afraid of pink, but hell, that looked like shit on me. Next I shuck the tiny shorts. Georgie turns away, but not before I notice her face turning red. It’s not like I’m naked; I have boxer briefs on, but I am enjoying her reaction.

  “Don’t be afraid to look. Get your eyeful in now, never know when you might get another chance.”

  “Just put the clothes on.”

  I chuckle and slip the shorts on first. They hang loose on my hips but hit me at my knees, a more comfortable location. So much better than mid-thigh.

  “I have pants on. You can look now.”

  Turning around, she eyes them and smiles shyly. “Those are much better.”

  “Help me with my shirt.” I slip it on and start to roll up the sleeves. I can’t stand long sleeves; I feel like I’m suffocating in them.

  Pausing for a second, I can see her considering helping me but unsure if she should. After what I’m assuming is a deliberation in her head, she gives in and starts buttoning up the shirt. I love the way her fingers barely graze against my skin. I can feel my abs flexing with each pass of her fingertips, almost like a feather caressing me. Feels good. My breath picks up, and I’m super aware of just how close she is. When she finishes, she taps my chest but doesn’t step away.

  “This looks much better. Very handsome,” she whispers.

  “Handsome, huh?” I lift an eyebrow. “I endure a little humiliation dressed as a giant plaid penis and now you’re throwing compliments in my direction. Damn, I should have asked to be humiliated a while ago.”

  She rolls her eyes and steps away. “Don’t push your luck.”

  “Never dreamt of it, Princess.” I wink and then look at myself in the mirror. Much better. I actually look like I can pull this off. “I might need a haircut.” I run my hand through my shaggy top.

  She comes up next to me and assesses my hair. “Just a trim on the side. I like it a little longer on top.”

  “Is that right? Good to know.” I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her in close. What surprises me is how she seems at ease with how I touch her. I know how much I like it, but does she feel the same? “What do you think? Do we look like a couple?”

  For a moment she’s silent, taking in the reflection in front of us. What I wouldn’t do to find out what she’s thinking right now, what her true thoughts are, because all I can think about is how good she looks by my side. Is she thinking the same thing? Or is she thinking she masked me well enough to show off to her society friends? Fucking hope it’s not the latter.

  “What are you doing in there? Come on!” Madison calls out. For someone who probably spends a lot of time shopping, she’s sounding incredibly bored.

  Not wanting to cause any more of a scene than we have, I open the curtain and strut it for the ladies. They hoot and holler as I spin and shake my ass for them, Georgie in the background smiling at my antics.

  To be a dick, I announce to the room, “The outfit is so not wearing me. I’m wearing the hell out of this outfit.”

  “Get it, girl!” Waverly snaps in my direction, egging me on.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Georgie says. “He has a big enough head as it is.” Her arms are crossed as she watches me from the dressing room, but the smile on her face speaks volumes.

  She’s not hiding anything. She’s enjoying herself and damn if I don’t like that.

  ***


  “You’ve been quiet the whole ride back. Is everything okay?”

  Everything was fine until I went to pay for the damn clothes Georgie wanted me to get and realized it was a little over six hundred dollars. I stood there, stunned, unable to even pull out my wallet.

  Six hundred dollars on three outfits and a pair of fucking boat shoes. What kind of fucked-up thievery is that?

  To my chagrin, Waverly stepped in and put her credit card on the counter before I could even think about pulling mine out. She said since it was her invite she was going to pay up. Although it was a kind and unexpected gesture, I can’t help but feel weird. I bet no man in their world would ever balk at six hundred dollars for clothes. Fuck, they probably spend more than that on shoes. God. I just feel . . . demeaned.

  Feel like I am the charity case.

  Hell, I walked into the shop wearing work boots, jeans with holes, and a plain green T-shirt. I was so out of place that if I hadn’t had the “squad” with me, I would have been Pretty Womaned and told to leave.

  “Fine,” I mutter as I pull onto the street that leads to Limerence.

  “You don’t seem fine.” From the corner of my eye, I notice her uncap her drink and take a drink just as I hit a pothole. Oh shit, she’s spilled her drink down her face and neck. “Shoot. Do you have napkins?” She reaches for my glove box and before I can stop her, she pops it open and is inundated with my overdue bills.

  Fuck.

  The one day they’re in my truck. The one day. I’m so done with pity. I’m so done with debt. It’s bad enough I was going to take them to Smalls to see if he could loan me some cash. But this? Georgiana fucking Westbrook, my part-time boss seeing my reality? My drowning-in-debt reality?

  “Can you fucking shut that?” I snap at her as the word OVERDUE in red stares at her.

  “I’m sorry.” She stumbles with trying to shut the bills back in the glove compartment, but there’s no use. She’s seen what they are.

  I pull into a parking spot right in front of the store, put the car in park, and quickly slam the glove compartment shut. Facing forward, I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white as heat runs up my spine.

  She saw them all.

  Fuck.

  “Racer, I’m sorry.”

  “Drop it, okay?” I pull the keys from the ignition and exit the truck, waiting for her to do the same but when she doesn’t, I look inside the cab, hands gripping the top of the truck, propping me up. “Are you just going to sit there?”

  Not answering me, she stares at the street, her eyes watering. Shit. Just when I think she’s about to cry, she digs around in her purse and pulls out her small purple notebook. Quietly she flips it open and starts searching through page after page until she stops, finding what she’s looking for. She runs her fingers over the words written on the paper and then turns it toward me. I’m so angry and humiliated but the sincerity in her features surprises me.

  “Flawsome,” she says, as she scoots into the driver’s seat. With her spare hand, she carefully runs her fingers over my scruff, examining me carefully. With a nod, she repeats, “Flawsome. Someone who embraces their flaws and still believes they’re awesome.” On a deep breath, she says, “Be flawsome, Racer, because honestly I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

  Scooting past me, she presses her hand against my chest in reassurance, exits the truck, puts her notebook away, and goes straight into Limerence without looking back.

  Emotionally paralyzed, I sit back in my cab and chew on the side of my mouth.

  Be flawsome.

  Accept your flaws and be awesome.

  Fuck if that doesn’t ring true, but my biggest flaw bruises my pride.

  Growing up, my father always instilled in me that hard work was the only way to work, telling me I’m to provide for not only myself but the family he dreamed of me having one day.

  “Be the better man,” he would say to me every day. At night, before bed, he would read me a story, kiss me on the forehead, and as he hovered over me, looking me in the eyes I inherited from him, he would kindly say, “Make mistakes, tell the worst truth rather than the best lie, love hard, and be the better man.”

  I’ve strived to be the man my dad raised me to be, but with bills pounding me from every direction, with each roadblock after roadblock knocking down my ego, I fear the solid foundation he tried so hard to build has been bruised. Crushed. How can I be the better man when I can barely make ends meet? How can I accept my flaws when the woman who catches my eye is miles apart from me? And will remain so. I have absolutely no doubt. She will soar even further away from me with every minute her dream becomes her reality. Her successful reality.

  Her smile is rich, her eyes bright with the future not far ahead of her, her lips, fuck, so luscious that I could spend hours worshipping them. She’s searching for perfect—she deserves perfect—and I’m far from that, something that will be more abundantly clear the minute she enters the stately Hamptons mansion with me at her side.

  Flawsome.

  I lean my head against the truck, my eyes cinched shut. She’s seen it now, my biggest—humiliating—secret. There’s no denying the evidence in my glove compartment. She’s not stupid, she’ll link everything together. My need for money, my desperation to get the job done, my dilapidated truck, the clothes I couldn’t fucking buy . . . the bills. It’s all there. She knows I’m broke.

  Tell the worst truth rather than the best lie . . .

  Words of wisdom from the man who taught me to be the better man. Who was the better man. I can either go in there, deny everything, act like a dickhead—because as she already knows, that’s what I’m best at—or I can walk into Limerence with my head held high, be the better man, and be fucking flawsome.

  I run my hand over my face, take a deep breath, and once again exit my truck. Nerves tangle in my stomach as I approach Limerence. From the window in the door, I can see Georgie sitting on the floor, her legs propped up looking at her iPad.

  I’m not naïve in thinking she’s way out of my league, but fuck if her last comment doesn’t have me thinking otherwise. “Be flawsome, Racer, because honestly I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” She has moments, little moments where I can see past the thick veneer she’s put up to shield herself, moments that show her true inner beauty, her grace, and unexpected tenderness. A far cry from the elitist, bikini-clad, nugget-eating hellcat I first thought she was.

  Even though I love fighting and joking with her, it’s the tender moments that have me fucking wishing I could scoop her up into my arms and show her another side of fun.

  Taking a deep breath, I walk through the door, pulling her attention away from the iPad. When she looks up at me, she softly smiles and pats the floor next to her. I take a seat and bring my knees up so I can rest my arms on them. I stare down at my linked hands and say, “I’m sorry I snapped at you back there.”

  “You don’t need to apologize, Racer.”

  “I do. I shouldn’t have gotten angry at you. It wasn’t like you were intentionally snooping. Just wrong place at the wrong time.” Not able to look at her, I continue, “I’ve, uh, I’ve had some money issues. It’s the reason I took this job because the paycheck will really help me out. I . . . uh, I was actually going to ask for an advance.”

  Fuck, this is hard. I can feel sweat start to pool at my lower back from how uncomfortable and awkward I feel.

  “Why didn’t you ask sooner?”

  “Because.” I slouch more against the wall. “It’s fucking humiliating. I mean what kind of irresponsible asshat do I look like asking you for money?”

  “You’re not asking me for money, Racer, you’re asking to be paid for the job you’re doing.”

  “Still, it’s you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” She’s not angry, which is helping, only needing clarification.

  I glance in her direction. “Come on, Georgie. You have the world at your fingertips. Not to sound like an asshole, but yo
u don’t know what struggling is like, the concept is foreign to you.”

  She laughs sarcastically. “You couldn’t be more wrong.”

  “Georgie . . .”

  “Remember how I said you know nothing about me? Well, you really don’t. I am nothing like my family believes me to be. The Georgiana you met while you were working on the pool house for my father? That’s the girl my parents want me to be. The socialite who runs charity events and walks on the arm of men like Chauncey McAdams. But I’m not that girl.” Looking around the empty space, she continues, “Limerence has been a dream of mine for a long time. I went to college, completed a master’s in business so I could open this shop. I spent some time after school helping my mom with her charity events, helping her improve them so the events benefit the needy more than the rich attending. And during that time, I spent hours putting together my business plan, making sure everything was in place so that when the time came, I could ask my dad to release my trust fund early so I could take a step toward accomplishing my dreams.”

  “And you did.”

  “Without any help from my dad.” Her voice is sullen; it makes my heart ache for her. “He made me believe what I came up with was worth his time, that I actually put together a business plan he could be proud of, but in the end, he used words to put me in my place. In his deemed place. He told me to get my head out of the clouds and to pretty much accept my role.”

  “Your role?” Anger starts to blossom inside me. “What do you mean he told you to accept your role?”

  Georgie fiddles with the hem of her shirt, her shoulders deflating. “My dad is the biggest chauvinist you will ever meet. He couldn’t care less about the women’s movement, about equal rights and equal pay. He believes the man is the one to provide and the woman is the one to stay at home and look pretty. Growing up, my mom would wear heels in the house just to put on a good show for my dad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear anything comfortable. She’s always dressed to the nines, polite, and proper in every scenario. My father expects the same from my sister and me as well as my brother’s wife, Waverly.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. So suppressing not only his wife, but his daughters is part of his agenda?”